2: The Terrorist
Langara was a world of varying biomes, although the bulk of its human population was scattered across the largest of the continents. Mountains and forests and freshwater lakes were plentiful, and the continent itself was surrounded by a vast saltwater sea that separated it from a far more barren, desolate continent further towards the planet's equator. From a distance, it might have passed for Earth save for the differing arrangement of its landmasses. Three moons lay in close orbit, two of them small enough to the point that they were more akin to 'asteroids' than actual moons, whereas the largest of the three was a grey sphere of crater-marked rock that would often appear as a shining disc during even the darkest of Langaran nights.
This was a world founded by the Goa'uld, yet like many others it had been abandoned and forgotten by the System Lords. A disaster, caused by the System Lord Thanos and his attempts to create a new form of naquadah, had almost destroyed the planet. He had instead destroyed himself, and the surviving human slaves had risen from the ashes to build a society for themselves.
Human civilisation had flourished since, the descendants of the slaves brought from Earth having built a sprawling, yet divided, modern world. Three nations took up opposing corners of the main continent: Kelowna, the Andari Federation and Tirania. It was in the highlands far west of the Kelownan capital city that the nation's most secure prison facility was located, a stark grey fortress situated high on a remote cliffside that overlooked a rough, treacherous sea. The most dangerous of Kelowna's criminals were kept here, from spies to mass murderers to outright terrorists. The red and blue flag of Kelowna hung high from the twin spires that overlooked the main entrance, and all around the perimeter of the dreary grey fortress stood a vast, concrete wall topped with guard towers and barbed wire. Guards in black and grey uniforms patrolled the ramparts and stood vigilant in the towers, whilst searchlights cut through the gloom of the night and crisscrossed the prison's grounds and immediate surroundings.
Kelowna was the nation that had had the fortune to locate the planet's stargate. It had also had the fortune to be situated upon a rich naquadria deposit that had offered them a potent, if volatile, source of energy. With the Ori occupation long over, the three nation-states had fallen back to their old, bitter rivalries. And, as tensions only escalated, so did the amount of prisoners taken to this remote, bleak place. Suspected spies and traitors; the amount of apparent enemies of the state had only increased in recent years. Tonight was no exception, for another of these enemies was being herded to his cell. A late arrival, the man was tall and young, and his hands were cuffed at his back whilst two black-clad guards shoved him along a dark brick corridor and into one of the lower cell blocks. Prisoners hollered from surrounding cells, and another guard was quick to pound his truncheon hard against one set of bars in an attempt to silence them. The noise echoed loudly through the cellblock, but the noise of the prisoners barely ceased. Here was a den of some of Kelowna's most dangerous and violent criminals who would hardly be quieted by a mere threat from a guard, and most cells were occupied with at least two individuals. However, it was to one cell partway down the hall that the new arrival was taken, and this cell was occupied by a single man.
He sat hunched on his bunk at one side of the cell, his dark brown hair long and unkempt. A similarly messy beard trailed from his face, and as the guards stopped by the door of his cell he slowly looked up. His lined features suggested a man of at least fifty, although in this case he was closer to sixty.
To his left was a desk, covered in books and papers. Taped to the wall above it were various clippings, most from Kelowna's more reputable publications. Headlines, some many years old, stood out starkly against the dark brown bricks: RESISTANCE HERO ARRESTED, DISGRACED. Another one read: BANK OF KELOWNA CITY BOMBED, 57 DEAD. And there, amongst the clippings was an old black-and-white photo of a man in his thirties or forties, with close-cropped light-coloured hair and a beaming smile. At some point during his stay, the inmate had scrawled a bright red 'X' across the photo. The print at the bottom revealed the identity of the man pictured: FILE PHOTO: QUINN, JONAS.
From one pocket in his drab grey convict's uniform, the inmate retrieved a small, dog-eared notebook. He flicked through it, skimming through the sketches and notes he had made within during the course of his extended stay in prison. Amongst the scribblings was an image of a dark, winged figure; another page was covered in the same phrase, repeated again and again: The Ascension of the Ordinary Man. During the night, whilst he slept, the angels spoke to him in his dreams. They had told him to prepare, and that the day would come when he would be needed. That day was today, or rather tonight, and he found himself watching the door of his cell with renewed intensity.
"This here's your new home," one of the guards remarked. The door swung open and straight away the other guard barged in, swinging his truncheon around in a vaguely threatening manner. He pointed to the cell's current occupant, making it clear that he was to remain where he was.
"Stay right there, Kavul." The guard, another young face like so many others around here, motioned for his compatriot. The other guard shoved the new, younger prisoner into the cell. He was dressed in the standard grey of a convict here, having come straight out of processing. "You've got a new friend. Don't go trying to kill him like you did the last one."
The inmate, Kavul, said nothing. The younger, newer prisoner stumbled inside, and as soon as he was in the guards were out and the door slammed shut, locking once again. The new arrival composed himself, looked about the cell and noted the empty bunk opposite Kavul's own. And then his blue eyes, set within a face that was no older than thirty years, narrowed as they fell upon Kavul's stoic, unmoving expression.
"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" The new arrival sounded almost awestruck. Now Kavul allowed himself a small smile, although it was barely visible underneath his bedraggled, feral-like beard.
"You're Gorum Kavul, aren't you?"
"What did they put you in here for?" Kavul's voice was low, his accent tinged with the rolling lilt common to northern Kelowna. His eyes flitted from the new prisoner towards the simple toilet in the corner, and the gears in his mind began to turn ever so faster.
"They think I'm an arms smuggler."
"Are you?"
The younger inmate smiled, before he shrugged his shoulders. He went to sit down on the empty bunk, but right before he did so he caught sight of the clippings and posters pasted upon the wall over the desk. He stepped towards them, driven by a mounting curiosity. Kavul remained seated, although now he flexed his fingers, cracking the aching knuckles of his scarred hands. The voices had told him the time to act would be tonight, he would simply have to ensure all went accordingly. That would be up to him, of course.
He had spent months preparing. Whilst his new cellmate got settled in, Kavul slowly rose to his feet. He stretched his arms and legs, making a show of it. His cellmate looked to him again, curiosity evident on his features.
"Is it true, what they say?" The younger prisoner asked. Kavul frowned, uncertain of what he meant.
"I mean, you fought the Ori. You helped free Langara. So, just what happened to put you in here?" Now the younger prisoner smiled again, even if he knew he would be inviting trouble. "They say the war made you crazy."
"No, I'm not crazy." Kavul slowly shook his head. He moved over to the toilet, back turned to his new cellmate. Up near the ceiling was a single small, barred window, barely a foot in width. Through it, he could make out the shining crescent of one moon, standing bright against the night sky. If he leaned closer to the window and listened carefully, he could hear the crashing of the waves against the cliffs below. It was, to him, the sound of freedom.
"I'm just eccentric," Kavul finished. He leaned over the toilet and placed both hands against the edge of the cistern, slowly freeing the lid. Inside, amongst the water and the internal pipes and valves, lay a simple length of black pipe little more than six inches long. There was also a small plastic bag, containing within it a light brown liquid, the result of months of careful work within the prisoner workshop. Whilst he was there helping to make simple, everyday items for a pittance, he had gradually smuggled from there small amounts of flammable liquids. When mixed in a certain way, such liquids could make for a volatile reaction.
"Hey, could you come here?" Kavul turned to his new cellmate, who quirked a brow in response. "The flush on this thing stops working sometimes. Bastards running this place don't care enough to fix it."
His cellmate rose to his feet and approached the toilet, and as soon as he neared Kavul had swivelled about and hit him square in the throat with the length of metal pipe. It was a quick and precise blow, and it carried with it a power that Kavul's age and generally average build did not necessarily suggest. Nonetheless, it was enough to make his cellmate stumble backwards, gasping and choking with his hands scrabbling for his throat. Kavul reached out and grabbed him, pulling him in into a tight headlock. The man was choking to death, his Adam's apple now pressing hard into his windpipe.
"It wasn't anything I did that put me in here, boy," Kavul growled, close to the choking man's ear. "It was the corrupt bureaucrats who came to power after the occupation ended. The same bastards I spent my younger days trying to get rid of. They threw me in this hole, but they didn't anticipate the other friends I have on the outside. The angels, boy, they speak to me and they told me you'd be coming. Did they tell you what awaited you in here?"
The younger man did not respond. Instead, he fell limp in Kavul's arms. The choking and gasping had ceased, allowing Kavul to get to work proper. He threw the cellmate to the bunk at his left, before he knelt by him and pushed his fingers into the man's mouth. As expected, there was a small plastic pouch under his tongue. Within that was a dark brown liquid, and Kavul smirked when he found it. They had promised him they would give him what he needed to complete the plan, and they had come through. This new arrival had been sent to the slaughter; no doubt he had been informed that what he had been given would help in his own escape.
"Thank you, thank you." Kavul muttered his gratitude to the unseen angels who watched over him. He moved back for the toilet, and there he picked up the other, larger bag of liquids he had spent months gathering. He threw it into the toilet then, the whole thing landing with an abrupt splosh. With one end of the pipe he carried in his other hand, he sliced into the top of the bag, just enough to cause the liquid to start trickling out. The other, smaller pouch he also tore open, and this time he poured its contents onto what was starting to gather at the bottom of the bowl.
As soon as that was done, he threw the bag aside and ripped the mattress off of his bunk. He threw it against the door, and he even went as far as to drag his dead cellmate over there as well. With seconds to spare, he crawled under the mattress and the corpse sprawled across it, closing his eyes and blocking his ears in preparation for the reaction he knew was coming.
It came as a sudden crash that proved deafening within the confines of the cell. A rush of flame spewed from the toilet, swallowing it up in a flash and taking away most of the wall behind it. Kavul felt the rush of air and heat as the crude explosive went up, followed by the shower of debris. The mattress and the corpse upon it absorbed most of the blast where he was concerned, but enough force spilled over the top of it all to take the cell door clean off of its hinges. The heavy steel door went clanging loudly into the hall, and the roar of the blast and the debris raining into the corridor was enough to set some of the other prisoners shouting.
The guards were quick to act, and an alarm started to sound seconds after the detonation. Kavul, his ears still ringing, threw the scorched mattress off of him, noticing that his cellmate's body had been thoroughly mangled by debris. Blood smeared the floor and had been spattered across the mattress, and with a callous kick he sent the lifeless heap falling out of his path. Ahead, a hole had been left in the wall, brick rubble having piled on the floor at its base. Fresh air billowed in, and the light of the moons cast a gentle silvery glow into the cell. Kavul could smell the seawater now, could feel the cold night breeze against his skin. Freedom, as they had promised. In return, he would carry out their divine work.
Behind him, a guard appeared in the ruined doorway. The man shouted, and he went for the gun at his waist. Kavul spun around, raising the length of pipe. His other hand slammed hard on its rear-end, where the crude trigger had been built. The single cluster of shot crammed within the pipe erupted out of its business end with a bang, lead pellets slamming into the guard and ripping through his uniform. More shouting erupted from the cellblock, and Kavul could hear running feet as more guards rushed his way. He wasted no more time and turned on his heels, hurrying for the exit he had made for himself. He knew he could trust in those who guided him, and like a divine instrument he would carry out their will. In exchange, he would be granted eternal life and ascend beyond this lowly, cruel realm of existence. Along the way, he had his own vengeance to enact.